The Tale of Tristan and Isolde
by GrecianPrincess
Summary: Before Romeo and Juliet...there was Tristan and Isolde. The true story behind the Arthurian legend. Rating may change in later chapters. Chapter Three now posted!
1. Chapter 1

_I resubmitted this chapter because I forgot to put "Chapter One". Yes, I'm very picky. Oh, and reference for future chapters: some of the quotation marks may be different than in other chapters. That is because some of the chapters I typed in Microsoft Word. _

Chapter One

The shores of Ireland were calm this morning. The young princess Isolde and her mother, the elder queen Isolde, paced a short stretch of beach near their home, awaiting the arrival of Morholt; her uncle and her mother's brother. He was demanding tributes from King Mark of Cornwall, and had yet to return. The two ladies were rather anxious.

"Where could he be, mother?" The Irish lass, with hair the color of a golden setting sun and eyes greener than the fields beyond, wrung her hands in worry. She loved her uncle very dearly; he reminded her much of her father. "It's not like him to take so long. He's been gone for quite some time."

"Now, now, daughter; I am just as worried as you are. I'm sure your uncle is fine." The elder Isolde tried to hide the worry in her voice, and her daughter could detect it. Something had happened to her uncle. She was sure of it.

A small boat, in the distance, came out of the morning fog. "Mother...is that uncle? Is it him?"

"I don't know...I don't see him, love. We'll just have to wait until the boat is closer to shore." The two sat down on the sand, not caring that it was wet and it stuck to their dresses. They only cared about the condition of Morholt.

The boat finally reached shore, and one of the men jumped out quickly, approaching the two ladies. "Morholt...he's dead."

"Dead?" Isolde gasped, and rushed to the boat, confirming it as the truth. There lay her uncle, once a strong, proud man; now, in a eternal state of repose, his skin ashen and gray. "How? Why? Who did this?"

"Sir Tristan of Cornwall. The nephew of King Mark. An English knight. He gave us a message to take to your father."

"Well, let us hear it first."

"I don't know..."

"Please!" The young girl grabbed a hold of his leather jerkin, pulling him forward. "He was my uncle; my mother's beloved brother! I have a right to know!"

"All right. Tristan said for us to tell your father...'the only tribute you'll get from King Mark of Cornwall is Morholt's body.' I'm truly sorry, m'lady."

The whole world fell away, until all she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears. Once again, she approached the boat, and her uncle. The wound he received was very deep--a harsh blow to his chest, his clothing caked in blood. A glint of something in his horrific wound caught her eye, and she reached carefully, pulling it out. A silver splinter, from a sword. Tristan's sword.

"Tristan, I swear, by the Lord our God, I will kill you if ever you cross my path," she said, through gritted teeth, as she placed the splinter in her pocket. As a reminder.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The little island where the great Irish warrior, Morholt, (brother of Isolde the Elder), set the stage for the duel, seemed fitting: the terrain was barren, rocky, and remote. The only eyes present at the duel were Morholt's men. King Mark of Cornwall, his uncle, had such confidence in his nephew's fighting skills, that he sent him alone, with only a little boat, his sword, and his misguided faith.

Morholt merely asked the King of Cornwall to pay tribute to Ireland, for recompensation. The warriors of the Emerald Isle died defending the English people and her lands. The king refused, and instead sent this little blighter to try and finish him off.

"Well, Tristan…" Morholt sneered, as the little Cornish boat came up on the rocky shore. "You showed. Didn't think you had it in you, lad."

"That's where I prove you wrong, old man," he taunted, and unsheathed his sword, swiping it through the air with practiced, teasing ease. Tristan of Cornwall's name was known throughout all of England, and Ireland, he assumed, as being the best of swordsman--even outrivaling the bloody Lancelot in both valor and skill. He had Arthur to thank for that; the good king's notoriety made his trusted knights famed as well.

The court and Round Table of Arthur was nothing more than a memory…after the foolish Lancelot rode away with Guinevere, the king of Camelot lost all will to live, and the knights disbanded of their own will. Tristan fortunately had his uncle to go home to. No woman, no wife. Being unwed held its advantages; he wished to never marry.

"You best watch your tongue, boy," Morholt sneered, and unsheathed his sword as well, pointing it toward Tristan, as a threat. And it should have served his purpose: the Irishman was over six foot, a giant. But it didn't.

"What will you do, old man…cut it off?" Tristan goaded him, and stepped closer to the man. "You'll die before you ever cut me. Do you wish for your sister to see you return as a corpse?"

"_You_ will die, and this will teach your land, and your uncle to pay Ireland its' just due!" Morholt rushed forward, meaning to end the dispute in one swift stroke. Tristan, however, was faster, and side-stepped the attack, delivering one walloping blow to his chest.

"Aaaargh!" Morholt screamed in pain, his lifeblood quickly soaking his shirt front. "You bastard!" He rose to his feet, and brought his sword down in a chopping motion, striking Tristan in the shoulder.

Though the wound hurt, Tristan merely laughed. "Barely a flesh wound. The great Irish warrior; bested by a mite such as myself!" He watched in glee as Morholt fell to the ground in agony.

"My wound will be the death of me…" he hissed. "As will yours."

"How so?"

"I coated my blade in poison, fool! You think that I would let your uncle's actions go unpunished? He will lose his beloved nephew…and no other but my sister, Isolde the Elder, can heal your wound." His head hit the ground, and in his final breath, he gasped, "…mark my words, for they be true." His skin went white with the pallor of death.

"Ignorant Irish bogtrotter," Tristan spit, kicking the stiff body. He pointed to Morholt's men; their faces showing no emotion, sadness or otherwise. "You, men, come get your fallen champion, and send this message back to the court of Goram, the husband of Isolde the Elder--the only tribute Goram will get from King Mark of Cornwall is Morholt's body."

He watched as the men took the body, and loaded it into the boat, sailing away without incident, much like Tristan planned to do shortly. His uncle would be pleased.

* * *

He never thought he'd find himself in a boat again so soon, but life held many surprises. The pain was absolutely unbearable, and the wound he received from the blow of Morholt's sword was agonizing. And the stench…no one wanted to come near him at court. He consulted every doctor, wizard, witch, and healer within the immediate radius of Cornwall. Nothing helped.

He thought again of Morholt's dying words. Tristan had dismissed his claim, thinking the man a lunatic…now, he knew the validity of his claim. He needed to seek out the help of the enemy, or he would surely die.

The passage to Ireland was rough, and because of that and the pain, he slept little, and his body told the tale…his hair stuck out in all directions, his eyes were bloodshot and heavy with wanting sleep. As the shore of Ireland neared after only two day's time, his weary mind raced. He had to hide his true idenity. The man who killed the brother of Isolde the Elder would not get any treatment should his true identity be known.

He scratched his head, wondering at what to do. He rummaged through the sack containing the belongings he packed for the trip, searching for a clue to help him. Coming across his harp, he smiled. "A minstrel, a player. Tantris…a lone player with enchanting ablities and even greater intellect." Ever the actor, he had no problem playing the part. At a young age, Tristan played the harp, and rather enjoyed the beautiful notes it made. Now, at his rather young age of 23, his skills outrivaled even the best of England's players.

As the boat docked on Ireland's shores, he wondered if the queen would heal a "lowly player?" _We shall see, _he decided.


	3. Chapter 3

_Yeesh. I am so sorry for not updating sooner! Here is chapter three..._

_Note: Isolde's mother, the queen of Ireland, is referred to as Isolde the Elder._

Chapter Three

"It seems wrong that we should have such a feast, so soon after uncle's..." a knot formed in her throat. "Do father and mother care at all, Brangwain?" Isolde sat on her bed, her fists clenching and unclenching the green fabric of her rather plain dress. Three days passed since the burning of her uncle's body, and the whole of her father's court and castle seemed asbusy and productive as ever. To one such as Isolde, who thought and felt things very deeply,her whole world stopped.

"Of course they care, child." Her companion and handmaid of near ten years (since the young princess was eight), sat down by her, and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "I know that you feel like the world will end. Your uncle's death..." she tsked. "Horrible thing. But life goes on. And you cannot stop living. Death...is just another part of life, lass. Like everything else."

"You sound like mother," Isolde sniffed.

"Good thing that I do, or else you would be weeping away in here instead of going to that feast, where you belong!" Brangwain laughed, and went to the wardrobe, which held dresses in almost every hue. "Now, what do you wish to wear?"

Isolde stood, and indicated her gown. "This."

"No, no! Too plain."

"I don't wish to attract attention tonight. That is the point." Often, she would love to just...be, not taking her place on the dais beside her mother and father, simply...existing. "And I know what you are going to say," she added, as Brangwain opened her mouth. "That as a princess, I do not belong down below with as such commoners. I...don't...care." She picked up her skirts, and humphed. "You may be my handmaiden and dear friend, Brangwain, but you say the silliest things sometimes." She left the room, heading for the Great Hall, where all feasts of her father's were held. Upon her arrival, she sat down as far away as possible from the dais, ignoring curious stares. "Mind your own business," she snapped at the gawkers.

* * *

The court of Goram was envied by all of Ireland. It was every bit as lavish as the courts of Britain, a once-proud nation, now, divided. Funny that many of those said tribes asked for Irish warriors, and never faltered in paying tribute. It seemed that only one tribe, the tribe of Cornwall, could not handle such as thing as a tribute. Because of King Mark and his beloved champion, Tristian's, stubborness, Morholt was dead. Goram thought of nothing but his people. All he wished was for the Cornish king to pay tribute to his country, for it was Irish warriors that died defending Mark'speople. Why were such violent actions necessary?

"My dear wife," he sighed, as a servant poured wine into his goblet. His towering frame came second to Morholt's, and his ginger hair and beard were flecked with the grayness of age and time passed. His golden crown perched atop his head was also worn down, with age. "I tire of sending our best over there, and half of them turning up dead."

"You carry a heavy weight." Isolde the Elder smiled, and placed a comforting hand on her husband's shoulder. If one saw, then one would notice that the Irish queen looked remarkably like her younger daughter, save for her lightened hair. "Do not carry it around your neck like a millstone."

"As always, dear one, you speak with the utmost of truth." Goram smiled, and glanced out at the room. Men and women of court sat at the tables provided; servants poured wine and took plates away; ministrels played tunes for those who cared to listen. "Dear...who is that?" He pointed at an unfamiliar ministrel of court. "I've never seen him before."

Isolde the Elder regarded the young ministrel...he barely looked above twenty years of age, but his height made up for any misgivings about his age. His hair was wild, unruly, and a light dust-colored brown. Though his hair was not the most fascinating thing about him; it paled in comparison to how ghost-like his complexion was. Almost transparent. "I don't know dear..." a rupture of applause sounded from where he was playing, "...however, it seems that he is well-liked...ministrel, ministrel!"

Tristan looked up from his playing, and smiled. Ah, that must be the queen. No wonder she and the man beside her (whom he assumed to be her husband) towered over everyone else; they sat on the dais, as was the custom of royalty. Feeling a fresh wave of pain radiate through him, he gritted his teeth against the pain and made his way over to the king and queen. "Majesties," he said, bowing. "I bestow my sentiments upon you."

"Dear ministrel, you play beautifully." Isolde the Elder smiled. "Pray tell, what is your name?"

"Tri-Tantris, majesties," he said, bowing once more. Dear God, why did he almost say his true name? Was his guise ruined? Thankfully, they didn't notice.

"Tantris, I so hoped that you could meet my daughter." Goram's eyes glanced out at the hall again, not seeing any clue as to her whereabouts.

"If she rivals her mother in beauty, you best watch...watch..." The poison from Morholt's blade finally took its' toll, and he fell to the ground, a black haze washing over him. He did not remember much, save being picked up, the sound of the rushing ocean, and the coolness of soft sheets.

* * *

"Oh, my God. Is he alright?" Isolde forgot about being anonymous, and rushed forward to the dais, mumbling _excuse me _to the various ones that were out of their chairs.

"He's been poisoned, dear one. Look at his arm." The queen had rolled up his sleeve, and Isolde hissed. The left arm was mottled with bruises; the veins were a deep, angry red and purple. Isolde the Elder motioned for a few servants to come and assist her. "Come, let us get this man, and go to the healing chambers. Isolde, come with me."

"Yes, mother." She retrieved the minstrel's harp, and followed. The healing chambers of Ireland's best healer were in the out of doors: a small dirt hut, built near the solid walls of a stone cliff. The sounds of the ocean waves were easily heard from the hut's only room: a small, dark room; even with a roaring fire, it gave off a slight foreboding air. A single bed rested along the right wall; along the back wall of the room there were shelves, and the shelves were stocked with various herbs and remedies. Completing the room was a worktable, the centerpiece. The queen used this to mix and prepare the remedies. "You," the queen said, pointing to the servants, mainly one in particular, who held the ministrel with absolutely no difficulties. "Help him to the bed." They obliged, and left upon dismissal.

"Isolde..." she moved closer to the man now lying on the bed, unable to take her eyes off of him. He was truly beautiful, almost as if he were a mythical being, rather than a man. "...Isolde!" She snapped out of her adoration, and paid heed to her mother's request, "...check his forehead."

"Mother, he burns." She shook her head.

"Remove his shirt, Isolde; I have to see his arm to tell what remedies to use." Nodding, she undid the laces of his shirt and slid it off, tenderly avoiding his injury. If she cared to look, she would notice that his body seemed chiseled, sculpted, almost as if from marble. Not the issue at the moment. The arm was the central focus; the source of the poison was a deep, gashing wound on his left shoulder. This made the veins discolored and angry; whether it was responsible for the bruises on his arm, no one could say.

"I know exactly what to use." Humming an old Irish melody, the queen moved to the shelves and selected a few herbs, going to the worktable and fashioning them into a kind of salve, concealed within a little cooking kettle. All this was done in barely any time, and she applied the balm to his arm, frowning as the ministrel moaned in pain. "The balm will sting, but it counteracts the effects of the poison." Finishing up, she gave the small kettle to Isolde. "There. That should do for now. Watch over him; I will send Brangwain to check in on you."


End file.
